Shubham Karoti

I've been letting my blog languish, trying to get a suitable idea to pen down here for a while now. Tee has given me some inspiration here. She's unlocked memories with her lovely Laal Bhoplyachi Kheer recipe, and given the opening to this post. Owe you one Tee!

Tee's kheer is very strongly reminiscent of my paternal Ajji. And though this post has nothing to do with food, it does have something to do with my Ajji's influence on me.

It was usually my grandmother who did the disciplining. Self-appointed guru, imparting the 'necessary' vidya to keep the family righteous at all times. Instilling the values that any child of a brahmin family should not breathe without. The shlokas, the vedic rituals, the traditions that are now a lineage. The proud inheritance of religious knowledge and the beliefs stemming from it.

My grandfather was more indulgent. He told us stories from the 'Sampurna Chaturmaas' - a guide to all imperative Marathi rituals, some even broken down month by month. To him, entertainment was the necessary sugar that made the medicine of tradition go down. He tried to make everything as interesting and participatory as possible. And that meant stringing hand-picked flowers into a garland, or decorating the Ganpati stand, or even completing the stories we had heard so often, they were a part of our conscious.

But discipline can't be written off. It was what made us join our hands (in a then perfunctory, restless) namaskar to God before running away to school. Or what made us wash our feet unquestioningly in the evening - belligerent from being called away from a long muddy play session - and join in the small four-lined Shubham karoti when the lamp was lit. But it was also what gave me the comfort of knowing my faith was not in vain.

And today, I recognise it for what it is - a routine that gives me peace. A faith that keeps me positive. Superstitious, you say? You bet! I admit to it. As easily as I close my eyes tight to ask God for help, I have learned to thank Him for every day. Just as my grandmother taught me to. I love the glow of the flickering samai as I light it every evening, and automatically, my hands join in a namaskar to mouth lines that, now, no one has to remind me to say. I can see Ajji nodding in approval all the way across the seas :)

Nope, won't get too religious and preachy on you today. Just the arrival of my favourite houseguest for 10 days that's made me go into this mood. And that gorgeous creamy kheer from Tee. Ummmm.

Ek Cutting

For some reason, I can't stop thinking of steaming cups of chai today. Lovely wisps of steam winding above that murky brown, uniquely Indian concoction. Ek cutting. Perhaps I find it comforting? Solace, maybe? Though in the typically Indian context it would mean company. Friends. Strangers. Bridegroom viewing. That first hello, a welcome, a hug, a way of filling that awkard silence, or just sharing a golden one :) Solid Indian hospitality, 'ek chai to lete jao!' (have a cup of tea at least!) Better yet, it could mean nothing, just 'time for chai', and as an Indian, I vouch that could mean any hour of the day / night!

With all the time I have on my hands today, I could guzzle away. Perfect accompaniment for a tussle with words - struggling to fill an application form that demands resourceful use of English. A careless sip or a reverent holding of the warm mug. Aah, I love my chai.

And to think that there was a time I thought drinking tea was a waste of time. That coffee was a more stylish and 'with-it' beverage. Thank God for my university days when (essentially) a lack money meant I chose the Rs.2 chai over the Rs.3 or more coffee. But it ensured that I suddenly belonged to, and understood, the chai drinking motley gang, joining in sometimes scholarly, sometimes eccentric, always entertaining and loud conversations. It didn't matter that the chai was brewed forever and was saccharine-sweet. Or that Rs.2 actually bought you only about 3 sips. No, chai was the new coffee in my life.

England came into my life with tea bags. Initially, I would boil the tea bags with water, the way we desis would back home. Then came the English tea concept - pouring hot water into a cup holding the tea bag, letting it 'brew' or 'stand' thus for a little while, finally stirring sugar and milk ('cream'? Ha!) into it. As students with a premium on time, we usually eliminated the 'standing time' and almost threw the lot into the cup and drank. But homesickness and nostalgia brought the brewing back. Can't be Indian without the strength in the tea, now, can we?

I bristle when the English show familiarity with tea. Unreasonable as it might be, tea for me is Indian. It's chai. How can it not be? Whether it's from Darjeeling or Kerala or Ooty, with cardamom and cloves or plain, it's ours. Like Basmati. Period.

Ummm chai. Need another cup of tea.

Ramayana Retold

Perhaps it would help if I put a disclaimer on this post much like the ones that flash on screens right before soap-sagas. 'The views expressed here are solely the author's and do not reflect her religious or political inclinations. Any unflattering comments are meant to be exactly that.'

I love the Indian epics. The Ramayan and Mahabharat are, according to me, the master plans for all stories ever told, certainly those based in India. They have all the ingredients for a successful script - virtuous men and divine women, demons and vamps, vile enemies, enviable harmony disrupted by human errors leading to colossal damages, war, love, betrayal, fight for honour, and the quintessential triumph of good over evil. Now you know Ekta Kapoor has an ocean to dip into for ideas.

What's more, they're not just mere stories to most of us Indians. They imbibe lessons for living. Set ideals to aspire to. Give us Gods to pray to. And show how human weaknesses and our inability (or unwillingness) to conquer our own demons leads to our fall.

Having said that, getting a new interpretation of a story that seems as old as time is always a tempting proposition. So when I stumbled across Ashok Banker's version of Ramayan as a five-book series at the library sometime back, I was quite thrilled. Being well-versed in the events of the story was a big plus, since I came across Book 3 before the other 2. The Bridge of Rama. It intrigued me enough to disregard a friend's not-so-favourable opinion - I read page after page with avid interest, wanting to know which other event or character would come out in way I least expected. But there was something not-quite-right, and I wondered if I was just trying to find faults. In the end, it did what a good book series should probably do - made me want to read the next one.

I managed to get my hands on another one, the first of the series this time, but as I got it scanned for issue, I wondered if I was taking this book because it was a re-telling of one of my favourite childhood stories, or just because it was proving to be good reading. As I get deeper into the pages, I think the latter would be more applicable, if at all. I would hardly recommend this to someone who wanted to know the story for the epic that it is. I would not want them to imagine Lakshman and Shatrughan referring to each other as 'Luck' and 'Shot', for starters. Neither would I want to know about lustful thoughts that the septuagenarian King Dashratha was entertaining. If you're looking for a story about magic, demons, royalty, skillful combat, some love and lots of lust, you're in the right page, i mean place. As a well-paced, well-sketched story, there's not much you can fault it for.

I would like to think of myself as a non-fanatic, tolerant of contradicting religious opinions and open to new ideas kind of person (don't we all?). What I mean is, I would not kill for a once -was temple which then had a mosque, or pillage a treasure of ancient documents because it served as research to a work that I felt showed a past king in lesser light. In fact, I enjoy Rama being portrayed as a human and not a demi-god, or sharing the author's imaginative re-constructions of the story (some of them make so much sense!). I don't think it's sacrilege to look at characters as familiar to you as your own family through a different looking-glass. But I do mind it being written in a language that could as easily be that in a Harry Potter, Bartimaeus (I adore this one too!) or yet another magical story set in an exotic land. I am not happy with run-of-the-mill vocabulary, and the predictable descriptions (Ravana, the Dark Lord? Echoing something called Harry Potter?) . I don't personally associate good writing with fantabulous, check the dictionary kind of words. But for me, the profession of writing is something that comes with the power to bend words of common use, pepper them with some lovely a-word-a-day vocabulary, and bring them to life in a way hitherto unseen.

Perhaps it's easy to pass judgment as a common, unqualified reader - one of many. This is not to take anything away from the sheer effort of putting together a story that is so much a part of a nation's fabric, the research and the creativity of reading differently a story heard umpteen times on your grandmother's lap.

It's a tale I enjoyed, reminded me slightly of some others I had read in the way it was told, but left me wishing for the real thing. Then again, I might be in the minority. Don't pull me up, I did put up a disclaimer!

How to make Puran Poli from Appam - The Art of Cultural Influence

I sat through Jodhaa-Akbar. Twice. And not out of compulsion. I can even say I liked it. What's not to like if there is Hrithik Roshan as an emperor to feast your eyes on? But the other reason is that I like the underlying theme of cross-cultural relationships.

Let me explain. I am a Maharashtrian married to a Mallu, living in the UK. Unity in diversity, 'glocal' living and all that. I think we have been married just long enough to say our cross-cultural 'union' seems to be getting along just fine. If you ignore my slight tendency to be overpoweringly,and surprisingly, true to my ancestors' soil.

I, umm, uhh, suggest (Ok, who am I kidding - I insist) to A that he be sensitive to my Maharashtrian-ness and its religious, traditional, gastronomical implications and adopt as much of my culture as possible. He doesn't drive a hard bargain - I do not have to start oiling my hair after a bath and wear a mundu, 'zimbly' (simply, for the uninitiated). But I find that there are times I hang on to all things Maharashtrian just out of the fear that the Mallu's mere presence would make me lose my original, mee marathi identity. So it could be my kitchen with its goda masala and thalipeeth bhajani, or my puja area with its haldi-kunku koyri, or perhaps my sudden love for Marathi cinema. I'm eternally prepared to defend my gadh (hill fort) from this Keralite invasion - just that there isn't one forthcoming - now or anytime soon.

A, being the typical man that he is, couldn't care less for my histrionics. I am the only one watching. Give him his daily meals and keep them coming. It doesn't matter hugely if they are as Maharashtrian as the Shiv Sena, as long as they satisfy his palate. He enjoys pithla, sheera, thalipeeth as much as dosas and appams, and could beat any Marathi man in a shrikhand-eating contest. The (happy) twist in the story is this - I could not eat all-Maharashtrian food all week long. No matter how much I claim to be the next successor to Shivaji's clan. I was born in the South, brought up in the North, the East, the West and the centre. So I need my dose of upmas, idlis, dosas, parathas, makhanis and chana masalas. Oh, and pastas and pizzas. And oh oh, Chinese - the ultimate cuisine. (Lost the point again, food does that to me. Apologies!)

As I was saying, the culture clash is non-existent in our house. It makes life so much easier since our religion is the same, and hence the basic tenets of living are common. But as others in similar situations might agree, the smallest discord over we-maharashtrians-do-this and you-keralites-don't, can disrupt domestic harmony. What could begin as harmless leg-pulling over accents, for example, could suddenly land you in the middle of a shouting match about whose language is better, whose food is tastier or even whose people are smarter. What helps, I would think, is knowing personal tolerance limits to avoid potential landmines, and most importantly, laughing at yourself.

It's been repeated often enough that we can learn from other states, regions, cultures. But when you get married into one, that takes on a whole new dimension. As an Indian woman, you have been brought up to look at your husband's family as your own - their ways are to be adopted, their traditions upheld. It is lovely advice - it is how families have grown, bonded and lived as one for generations. But it's challenging even without the complications of crossing cultures. You want to protect what you think defines you, and yet, blend into a new house and a new family seamlessly, hope for them to take you as one of their own. In all this, there is no undermining the role the husband plays in making your culture his own, thus creating an atmosphere of positive exchange (A gets full marks here. And Hrithik / Akbar is outstanding. Extra marks for good looks, of course).

But as I am learning, all it takes for the appam and the puran poli to co-exist, is the will to do so. A and I try and make this exchange as interesting for each other as possible - a word a day in the other's language, cooking tips, movies, or just plain old anecdotes about Maharashtrian / Malayalee people. It gives us a window into another world (and makes us smarter than the average couple, but that is another story). So although A does speak more Marathi than I do Malayalam (oh come on, it's a really difficult language!), and we do end up eating rotis more than rice, you will find us watching the occasional Malayalam movie and if you listen real hard, that's me sprinkling Malayalee words in my conversation with my mother-in-law. Oh, gotta go......... my appam's burning!